San Antonio daily light. [volume] (San Antonio, Tex.) 1886-1907, 1887-05-21

procured a lamp. / set it down on
the table, where the light fell on those
faces. | found that Ruth had sunk
lower and lower as the head on her
shoulder grew heavier. A glance told
me the truth. He was dead.
She saw it, she knew it. She sank
down lower yet, till his bright hair was
on the pillow, hers beside it. She moan
ed softly, lying thus cheek to cheek. l
heard few words, Brother, take me
take me with you. l have none but
you"
Then she lay quite still, half on the
couch, half on the floor, face to face
with the dead.
What did do?
stood and looked at them.
As l stood and looked at them, went
through one of those experiences that
it is no use to try and record-that are
written on the page of life forever.
By-and-by l found that she was lying
i'm dead faint.
her on the floor on as good couch as l
cushions of an old chair.
had told her the truth when / tod
her was sort of doctor. That had
been the profession had not loved well
enough to follow, after large fortune
left me had made the pursuit of pro-
fession needless. could treat her as
well as another. l did what | could for
her, and saw her revive.
My entreaties prevailed on her after
time to leave the room for few hours,
going with the woman of the rooms be-
low; but before the night had half pass
ed she was back again,
do not be angry with me. / want
to sit and look at him. l won't cry.
Soon | shall lose him forever!"
She took her station by him; she beg
ged me to go away somewhere to get
rest. pretended to yield; but found
myself too anxious to go beyond the
anterOom. She was not in state to be
left alone.
The dawn brought the horrible and
narrowing business of putting away out
of sight, out of reach, the mortality
which had been so dear, that we had
clutched so close, and never could keep
too near-to my mind.
| talked to her as little as could, and
as gently. GENTLY II words could have
fioated ON the air like eider-down, or
touched her with gOSsamer-light
touches, they would still have seemed
to me too rough to be cast at her then.
Still, was forced to try and ascertain
her wishes.
"You know what is best-you will do
what is right, she answered me, gent
ly; but don't ask me to leave the house
while he is in it. Think Of the long
years that"
There she paused-burst into violent
weeping. She had not cried before.
i nj
ing!" she said, pressing her hands over
it.
1 clasped her to me. l comforted her
as well as | could, reminding her, as
we'll as knew how, of how well things
must be with her beloved brother. |
spoke, too, of the place where we would
lay him to rest, of the country, silent
among the roses, the viOlets.
She lay quiet in my arms, and by-and-
by lifted up her face to listen.
To see that sweet, sad face resting
against my breast, to look down upon
it, and meet its trustful eyes, filled me
with overmaStering emotions.
IF you can love me-" | said then,
"you need never feel alone or unshelter-
ed, never more while live. This is no
unfit place or time to tell you this, for
he knew | loved you, and was glad in
knowing it: but do not ask, or expect,
or desire any anSwer-not now"
1 hardly know that she took in the
sense of my words; sorrow and eXhaus-
ton had drained her life. No tinge of
color came to her cheek; she just listen
ed.
"How good you are-how good you
arel" she said. what could l have
done but for you?;
| arranged every thing for the best as
far as | knew; | tempted her from the
room to go with me to the graveyard be-
yond the walls, to choose where he
should lie. She seldom spoke; she said
afterward it was all like dream, from
which she expected at any moment to
awake.
The next day we buried him.
When all was done we fingered near
the place. A spring breathed soft wind
was blowing; spring-vOiced sweet birds
were singing, the mild spring sun was
shining; the place was very soothing
and peaceful, lowered over by the great
monumental tomb of some forgotten
great one. That was day to be re-
membered.
l promised her that the grave should
be cared for better than any other in
the place.
When we went away l took her to the
care of that motherly, kind Quakerish
lady of the diligence, whom l had pre-
pared to receive her.
l did not see her again for some days;
she was too exhausted, when the reac-
ton from long Over-tension set in, to
leave her bed.
l called every day, and always found
10 l.nl nfnf a0l
ready for me; but day after day l did
not see her.
At last a bright day came when l did.
dOwn-looking, than | had anticipated.
The meeting of me agitated her very
greatly. Her black dress, too, increas-
ed the delicacy of her look.
Mrs. Norris stood by her, smoothing
her hair and petting her with lovings
deeds and words till she was calmer;
then, good womanl she left us together.
had no idea what lay before me.
Our interview was long one. More
than once / left her side and paced the
room in despair; stood at one or other
of the windows that looked down upon
the city, and pondered how | could con-
vince her of my love-that is to say, of
the selfish and interested nature of it.
She met my definite offer of my hand
and heart with the most meekly, hum
bly, firm refusal.
Her gratitude was so full and so low
ly, her agitation so great. that | could
not be angry with her; but was great
" irritated, and turned my irritation
against myself-cursed myself that /
could find no words strong enough to
convince her.
1t was just like me, she told me-jlst